When The Walls Come Tumbling Down

Day 241: In the light of several recent events, I have been pondering the instability and impermanence of the internet. This monster was released upon the world untimely; unmuzzled, unleashed and relatively uncontrolled, it brought into the peace of our lives a whole new wealth of woes. With it came viruses and hackers, and it made identity theft a fear in the hearts of us all. It gobbled our time; it disenfranchised our families; yet we embraced it and confided in it, dumping our deepest secrets into the electronic ether where they might be retrieved by anyone with a mind to prowl. We trusted it. We gave it our family photos, our driver's license and credit card numbers, our service records. We allowed it to follow us into department stores and forests, into our doctors' offices, into our best friend's wife's bedroom, and we invited it to document the event which transpired there.

Once we awakened to the error of our ways, once we had discovered to our embarrasment and shame that our secrets were available for public perusal at a click, we tried to stem the tide. Alas, it was too late. Fools that we are, instead of withdrawing from its maw, we fed it more of our personal data, blindly believing that the odds would fall on our side, and that the inevitable would somehow pass us by. We did not understand just how insidious the Monster is, nor how pervasive; nor, indeed, how fragile. Websites change. Our most carefully crafted security measures can be circumvented. The internet houses hundreds of thousands of parasitic organisms, each waiting for a victim, and still there is no check, no collar put on this maleficent and virulent beast.

The internet is an unstable edifice. It is not a vault. It is not impermeable. It is not unbreachable. It is a house of cards, ready to tumble at the slightest breeze.

Nasties!

Day 240: "Nasties" as in "Nasturtiums," that is...Tropaeoleum majus. Gardens are so much happier for having Nasties like these in them, and it never occurs to me to plant them until it's too late. This year, I neglected to order flower seeds from Park in January as I usually do, so on a trip to Watson's Nursery, I browsed the seed racks for something quick and easy. Marigolds were a no-brainer, although I know I'll be kicking myself next year when I have to weed them out from where they've reseeded, and a few bedding plants will fill in the hollow spaces in my haphazard flower bed. The Nasties are destined for hanging baskets to go outside the kitchen door.

Just recently, I was discussing with a colleague what to look for when trying to differentiate one type of native Violet from another, specifically the presence or absence of a spur on the back of the flower. "What do you mean by 'a spur?'" she asked. I said, "Like on a Nasturtium. Don't tell me you never bit off the spur on a Nasturtium so you could suck the nectar out!" I couldn't believe what she responded. "No," she said, "and I had to Google to see what a Nasturtium is." The next afternoon, I took her on a quick lunchtime field trip to look at Violets. At some point this summer, I hope to be able to drop some Nasties on her desk. Sucking nectar out of Nasturtiums is an experience kids of all ages can enjoy, even those who managed to reach adulthood without trying it.

All parts of a Nasturtium are edible. The nectar is a bonus! The peppery leaves and/or blossoms can be used in salads, the blossoms can be stuffed with any type of meat, and may be battered and deep-fried for a finger-food treat. The spicy seeds have been called "poor man's capers," and can be pickled just like the fruit of Capparis spinosus, then chopped and added to homemade tartar sauce. Nasties are anything but nasty!

Glowing Gold

Day 239: When the heat pumps were installed, the outdoor unit for the main one needed to be placed smack on top of the Wintergreen and "Gold Dust" Hostas I'd so carefully cultivated. I was more than a little dismayed at the thought, but had no choice but to move them. I lifted as much soil as I could, dropped the shovelsful into dishpans and then replanted them, disturbing the root masses as little as possible. I expected them to suffer something for the transition, or perhaps just up and die.

Maybe it was the soil closer to the front steps. Maybe it was a change in light. Both plants not only reestablished, but burgeoned in their new environments. Or maybe it's the circulating air, product of the heat pump fan. For whatever reason, they like their new homes, and I am very happy about that!

Living In Longmire

Day 238: One of the last places you would expect to see a lawn flamingo is in a National Park unless perhaps it cropped up in Everglades as an April Fools prank by some visitor, but this chap seems quite content living in the employee housing area of Longmire. He's been there for several months to cheer us up as we walk from the administrative compound to the community building, apparently content to live on a diet of fir needles and cones. He always makes me chuckle, and I've stopped several times to take his picture, but never knew quite what to do to present him to the public until now.

And All The World Was In Darkness

Day 237: In both hemispheres of the world, Ravens and Crows appear in similar legends regarding the time before man when all the world was in darkness. The stories begin in a cold, lean age when the other animals could not see to find food and had to huddle together for warmth. They convene to discuss what they might do to improve their situation. This theme is consistent in the oral histories passed down by the indigenous cultures of both the Pacific Northwest and of Australia. It diverges somewhat at this point, but the Hero remains the same: a Corvid.

In Aboriginal myth, the Crow either steals fire from the Seven Sisters (a constellation), or a group of crows band together and use forked sticks to lift the blanket of darkness from the Earth, allowing light to creep in. In Native American lore, Raven is the only animal brave enough to meet the challenge of stealing fire from the Sun. In some local variations, Crow/Raven begins as a white bird and is burned black by the fire/sun. In most versions of the legend, supreme intelligence and cleverness are accorded to the Corvid in question, often with the bird being the originator of the idea of the theft.

The exceptional intelligence which Corvids exhibit has caused many negative feelings toward the species. Humans do not like to think of other creatures being equally or more intelligent than they are themselves, or they refuse to recognize an alternate way of thinking as being a cognitive process, attributing it instead to instinct and selective genetics. Those of us who have lived in the company of Crows and Ravens know better. These are highly intelligent beings if, perhaps, on a different level than our own mental functions.

Mister here and his mate Missus have been coming to my feeding station since they were newlyweds several years ago. I observed their courtship, their bonding, and their displays of affection. They kissed beaks and groomed each other; they threw snowballs at each other; they rolled around in the snow like children making snow angels and then touched wings as if holding hands. Now, with several years of married life behind them, they are more subdued in their romance but still sit closely side by side on the fence to await their breakfast. Mister is the braver of the two (and he cautions her to stand back when I am present). He has lost most of his fear of the camera and will even allow me to walk in the yard while he's sitting on the board. I have yet to see them produce any young, but each year at this time, I start listening for the sounds of baby Ravens, the sounds of children learning to speak single syllables to convey complex concepts, things we humans need lengthy sentences to put across.

Quilter's Home Companion

 

Day 236: Skunk's first attempt to take possession of the quilt ended in failure. She wanted to sit on the hoop. She stood on my lap and put her front paws on the edge, and as the frame tipped toward us, she was forced to make a reassessment of strategy. This morning, I found her tucked into the kitty-cave made by the draped fabric. I suppose there's no question now: the quilt belongs to the queen of the household, so I'd better get cracking on finishing it up.

The Life And Times Of Arthur Dent

Day 235 and a Happy International Towel Day to you all!

(Quoting Douglas Adams):
On Wednesday night it had rained very heavily, the lane was wet and muddy, but the Thursday morning sun was bright and clear as it shone on Arthur Dent's house for what was to be the last time.

It hadn't properly registered yet with Arthur that the council wanted to knock it down and build a bypass instead.

At eight o'clock on Thursday morning, Arthur didn't feel very good. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered blearily round his room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his slippers, and stomped off to the bathroom to wash.

Toothpaste on the brush - so. Scrub.

Shaving mirror - pointed at the ceiling. He adjusted it. For a moment it reflected a second bulldozer through the bathroom window. Properly adjusted, it reflected Arthur Dent's bristles. He shaved them off, washed, dried and stomped off to the kitchen to find something pleasant to put in his mouth.

Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn.

The word bulldozer wandered through his mind for a moment in search of someting to connect with.

The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was quite a big one.

He stared at it.

"Yellow," he thought, and stomped off back to his bedroom to get dressed.

Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a large glass of water, and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he been drinking the night before? He supposed that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror. "Yellow," he thought, and stomped on to the bedroom.
He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear, the pub. He vaguely remembered being angry, angry about something that seemed important. He'd been telling people about it, telling people about it at great leangth, he rather suspected: his clearest visual recollection was of glazed looks on other peoples' faces. Something about a new bypass he'd just found out about. It had been in the pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort itself out, he'd decided, no one wanted a bypass, the council didn't have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out.

God, what a terrible hangover it had earned him thought. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He stuck out his tongue. "Yellow," he thought. The word yellow wandered through his mind in search of something to connect with.

Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying in front of a big yellow bulldozer that was advancing up his garden path.

*****

Crow speaking: Do you know where your towel is?

*****

It was a quiet morning in Pack Forest, and I had gone in search of Vogons (or at the very least, a yellow bulldozer), clad in a dressing gown, slippers (I call them by their Spanish name, pantuflas; I like the sound of that word...pantuflas), and lacking a bowler, my Boy George hat. It had rained heavily the night before, and the grounds were wet and muddy. I was not hung over, and therefore perceived the great hulking yellow machine quite clearly as it bore down upon me from the Vortex. Was I afraid? Not I! I had my Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in hand, and I had my towel. There would be no panicking on my part on this day, although I can't speak for the people in the car which came out of the housing area while I was standing there with arms raised.